My Shadow’s Keeper Part 5: Shadows’ Reach (Excerpt)

By Rory Hatchel

            Vaeril finished his pipe and tapped the ashes into the small cup at his table. He waved his hand and the innkeeper’s boy came and took the cup and saucer away. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the table. The boy would bring a fresh scone and another cup of coffee.

            Vaeril had worn the shadow of the boy’s father for too long. It was getting thin, stretching along the throat and thighs. He’d have to leave and find another. It was too bad. He liked this shadow. Good scones. Coffee was rubbish, but the innkeeper’s wife found fresh raspberries for the scones. She wasn’t bad in bed either.

            But the real regret would be moving away from the docks. He could be an urchin for a week or two — he’d been worse — but the streets didn’t have coffee at all. Bad coffee was better than no coffee.

            There was a stir among the dockworkers. The fishing ships were all moving towards something in the water. Vaeril stood up as one of the constables went to inspect it. Vaeril was quick and quiet, finding the constables back with a hidden blade before the man could gasp. One spell held the body still, silencing him, and another muted his blade. To anyone looking — and no one was — the constable seemed to have had a seizure or back spasm. He slumped back down in his chair with Vaeril’s help.

            Vaeril reaved the man’s shadow and slipped it on quickly. He smiled as he adjusted to the new appearance. Shadows had unfortunate physical traits to them. This one smelled of sweat and felt like damp pamper clinging to his skin.

            He missed the raspberries already.

            But duty cost time, and he had little to spare. Not that anyone in this sleepy town could stop him if it came to that, but it would draw a lot of Empire attention if suddenly an entire town fell into a shadowless sleep. And if Thiala’s reports were accurate, the Empire would already be on alert for any strange activity, especially any Drow activity.

            “Step aside. Step aside.” He pushed through some fisherman crowding at the edge. They turned and frowned when they saw him.

            “Sorry, Titus,” some of them muttered.

            Oh goody. He had a name.

            “No matter,” he grunted — apparently Titus was a grunter. “What have we here?”

            A short Dwarf in a knitted cap and thick coat pointed out. “Boat,” he said.

            “No shit.” Some of the men gave him a strange look. Titus wasn’t much for foul language. Pity.

            “No one on that boat there,” said another sailor.

            “Haunted,” whispered another.

            “Or magic,” said a third.

            “Right,” said Vaeril. He puffed up his chest. “Well, I’ll need you all to step aside. Could be Drow magic. I’ll have to check it out.”

            “We can help bring it —”

            “And get yourself killed? I’ve seen Drow hexes make a man’s balls fall off. And those were the weak ones.”

            Weak balls or weak men or weak curses? Damn ambiguous modifiers.

            But the men seemed to get it, and they stepped away, moving away from the dock. Vaeril got permission to take one of their smaller boats, pledging the Empire would reimburse them for any damages. They relented, and Vaeril moved out on the water.

            There were two boats. Both unmanned. Vaeril quickly shift his vision to detect magic. There were powerful runes and … there. Entropos’s presence. Just a hint of it, but the shadows of the boats were all wrong. Instead of bending away from the boats in relation to the sun, they bent towards the dock, pulling the boats to Vaeril.

            Good girl.

            Vaeril quickly untangled the wards over the boats and the saltpeter. He went aboard, inspecting what she’d sent him. She’d done better than she’d known. She assumed she failed, but she got him more than enough saltpeter to blow a hole in the heart of the Empire. And even better, Vaeril found the shattered remains of a sending stone. That was the last tangible connection from him to her.

            Vaeril felt a twinge of something, as the loss of Thiala struck him. Not quite grief. Not even really pain. Perhaps it was closer to frustration, as one must feel when they’ve misplaced something that they need. No, not quite that. If you misplaced your tunic, it wasn’t because it lost itself. It was like using a dagger to pick a lock. It wasn’t the ideal tool, but it’d do. If the dagger breaks, it breaks.

            Next time you’d use the pick.